Absolutely!
A visitation by the postal service today! Despite being almost completely uninhabited, postal deliveries to Janitor Island can be arranged, and today the proof of this statement was made crystal clarity, for United Postal Worker Odetta Clive landed her amphibious aircraft off the shore, beached it on the sand, hopped out with a mighty mighty woo! and perkily handed me the DVD copy of the second season of Family Feud that I had ordered, her uniform neat and well-pressed. I thanked her heartily. "That was the last of my deliveries," she said, "and my plane is right gosh-darned empty. Now I just haf to pick something up on yonder Christmas Island and I'm done for the day. It's just going to be a lonely flight over there. I plan on playing some mean billiards in the capitol once I clock out o' work, and it's a pity I don't know any of the locals."
"But wait!" I said. "You're aeronavigating (barnstorming?) your way to Christmas Island?!?!"
"Why, surely!" she replied, standing with enviable posture and a fantastically chichi scarf circumnavigating her professional neck.
"May I ask you a huge favor?" I asked.
"Yes?"
I handed her a skulk of bananas, a tribe of vervet monkeys screaming around my legs as I held it aloft. "Will you deliver this to Henry Fitcuss of the Christmas Island Electric Company as collatoral for my surely-as-of-yet-unpaid bill? I don't want my rock garden heat lamps to be cut off. That would be tragic and unbecoming of their faithful and stranded caretaker."
"Okay," Postal Worker O. Clive said, accepting the bananas, "but I'm gonna charge you postage."
I handed her three filberts and one almond, and then Maribeth Toilet and I, Alvin Stomack, thinker and luscious dreamer, helped shove Odetta's plane back into the deeper water as she took off into the sky like a fiery phoenix reborned from the ashes of dead Apollo's noisome corpse. Then I returned to the Air Penguin, still far from complete, and dreamed of the day it would be fully constructed and pass the stringent safety tests Samuel Smiles had outlined so that I can return to the home I dearly miss, for which golden tears hourly depend and rivulet from my tear sockets, dripping into my coconut tea on a Wednesday afternoon as I await the beauty of the Janitor Island sunclipse.
"But wait!" I said. "You're aeronavigating (barnstorming?) your way to Christmas Island?!?!"
"Why, surely!" she replied, standing with enviable posture and a fantastically chichi scarf circumnavigating her professional neck.
"May I ask you a huge favor?" I asked.
"Yes?"
I handed her a skulk of bananas, a tribe of vervet monkeys screaming around my legs as I held it aloft. "Will you deliver this to Henry Fitcuss of the Christmas Island Electric Company as collatoral for my surely-as-of-yet-unpaid bill? I don't want my rock garden heat lamps to be cut off. That would be tragic and unbecoming of their faithful and stranded caretaker."
"Okay," Postal Worker O. Clive said, accepting the bananas, "but I'm gonna charge you postage."
I handed her three filberts and one almond, and then Maribeth Toilet and I, Alvin Stomack, thinker and luscious dreamer, helped shove Odetta's plane back into the deeper water as she took off into the sky like a fiery phoenix reborned from the ashes of dead Apollo's noisome corpse. Then I returned to the Air Penguin, still far from complete, and dreamed of the day it would be fully constructed and pass the stringent safety tests Samuel Smiles had outlined so that I can return to the home I dearly miss, for which golden tears hourly depend and rivulet from my tear sockets, dripping into my coconut tea on a Wednesday afternoon as I await the beauty of the Janitor Island sunclipse.